


A Study in Missing Time

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Superwholock, Time Travel, but not really, more tags will be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You two were supposed to meet—you were supposed to save that idiot, but nooo. Someone’s been splashing about in the time stream, messing up the currents. Someone doesn’t want you to meet. Someone who’s willing to bend time and space to make sure it happens.”<br/>Sherlock and John should have, by all means, met that day in the lab at Bart's. Sherlock was never supposed to swallow the wrong pill. But they didn't, and he did. The Doctor knows the two were supposed to meet; so why is John still limping around London, while Sherlock is a permanent guest in the morgue?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John sipped politely at his coffee, grimacing at the sweetened taste—he’d specifically asked for _black_ coffee; not that the idiotic teen at the little coffee stand could tell the difference—and making a feeble attempt to listen to what Mike Stamford was droning about. Mike was a nice man and all, but he tended to go on and on about particularly boring matters; he hadn’t changed much, not in that aspect, at least.  Mike had been somewhat of a friend when they’d been at Bart’s together, though they were never _that_ close. Still, it was nice to have some company in his new, mundane life as an ex-soldier. And the man _had_ bought him a coffee, after all—it was overly sweet and a bit watery for his taste, but it was a nice gesture and the least John could do was be polite for a while.

 

Mike briefly commented on his current problem, of how London was probably too expensive for his army pension, jokingly stating, “That’s not the John Watson I know.”

 

“I’m not that John Watson,” John replied rather seriously, swallowing another mouthful of sugary liquid. The mood dropped a bit, Mike shifting awkwardly next to him.

 

“Couldn’t Harry help?” he suggested, knowing the answer already; John’s rocky relationship with his sister wasn’t exactly “top secret”.

 

The ex-army doctor snorted. “Like that’s going to happen.” The last time he’d seen Harry had been before his invalidation from the army, at a Christmas dinner gone wrong and ending in multiple shattered glasses and a sore nose—she’d learned how to pack quite the punch at an early age. Mike was silent for a moment, thinking.

 

“I dunno, get a flatshare or something?”

 

The other man laughed cynically. “Come on. Who’d want me for a flatemate?” John joked, half-serious. Even before Afghanistan, John hadn’t exactly been the most social person, so finding someone who he could live with was a bit of a challenge. And really, who wanted a broken ex-soldier with no job and a hand gun hobbling about their flat? No, a flatshare was definitely out of the question.

 

A small, almost wistful smile spread across Mike’s face as he chuckled, like he thinking about something entirely different.

 

“What?” John asked, frowning at the blank gaze from his friend’s eyes.  Mike turned towards him. Confusion flickered across his face then, eyebrows drawn together as if deep in thought, frowning heavily. “Mike?”

 

The larger man blinked a few times, seemingly baffled about what he’d been about to say. “Sorry, mate,” Mike muttered, perplexed, “Forgot what I was gonna say.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, as if that would help him regain his lost thoughts.

 

An odd sense of disappointment ran through John as he leaned back against the bench, still frowning. It felt like something was off, like he’d forgotten something entirely and had missed out on it. Like something was going to _happen_ that should have. _Nothing happens to me_ , he thought bitterly.

 

******

 

A week after catching up with Mike, John had dug himself deeper into his depressing rut. Every day was the same endless cycle:  appointments with Ella in the morning, futilely try to post on his blog, become frustrated with said blog. Walk around London for a bit, maybe look and see if there were any job openings at a clinic, return to his lonely little bedsit, eat a small meal of beans on toast or something just as equally boring. Lay awake and hope Afghanistan wouldn’t torment him in his dreams. Repeat.

 

It was a mundane, calm life, one that some would have enjoyed in its simplicity. It just wasn’t _his_ life. John needed action, craved danger and adventure. It had been the entire reason he’d signed up for the army—running around strange places, always being shot at, the constant threat of death looming over his head as he ran on pure, unadulterated adrenaline to reach and treat the injured and dying, knowing that any moment he could die and yet feeling like he had an actual purpose in life other than to marry some faceless woman, get a dull job in an office cubicle and maybe have one or two children. John had enjoyed that life, relished the action-packed life and also the fulfillment he felt when successfully saving a dying man on the battleground.

 

A single shot to the shoulder, some shrapnel in his leg, and it was all over. Memories were a blur; his hospitalization; meeting Bill Murray, the nurse who saved his life, who broke the news of his being invalided home; arriving to the bleak chill of London at Heathrow airport, alone, because Harry was too drunk to welcome her injured brother home. Everything was just one sort of run on sentence that he barely remembered. And all of a sudden, John was left to fend for himself in an ex-soldier’s life, unaware of how to live the unexpected mundaneness with nothing but a bum leg, painful memories of the dead and dying and an almost imperceptible, career-ending tremor in his dominant hand.

 

John rubbed a palm against his eye and sighed heavily. Today had been one of his poorer days; he’d been turned down for a job at a clinic, had snapped at Ella harshly, and the dramatic change in the freezing January temperature was causing his shoulder to ache sorely. Grabbing his laptop from his desk drawer, John’s fingers lingered on the handgun he kept underneath, brief memories flooding his mind before he dismissed them. It was easier not to think about it.

 

He stared at the blank white page for a moment, the title at the top proclaiming “THE PERSONAL BLOG OF DR. JOHN H. WATSON”. There were a handful of posts already, mostly ones with titles like “Nothing”, “Pointless,” and “Look Ella, I’m writing on my blog”. One or two told about his meet up with a couple of his rugby mates from Uni, another a plea for help on how to delete the post (or the blog entirely, either one would do). After several frustrating minutes of gazing blankly at the blinking cursor that mocked his inability to pull something worthwhile out of his memory, John gave up entirely, collapsing on his military-neat bed. Completely bored, John snatched the daily newspaper from his bedside and unfolded is crisply, scanning it over in a half-hearted search for something to do.

 

**FOURTH SERIAL SUICIDE FOUND IN BRIXTON**

**SUSSEX FARMERS SAY FAILING CROPS A RESULT OF ANGRY PAGAN GODS**

**LOCAL MAN SWEARS BLUE BOX “FELL FROM THE SKY”**

**SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS**

**BLACKHEATH RUGBY TEAM TO…**

_Suicide of fake genius?_ John felt compelled to flipped to the page listed under the title. A picture stared up at him, depicting a man with a raven curls and verdigris eyes that seemingly pierced right through him. John kept reading:

 

_Consulting detective Sherlock Holmes was found dead of an apparent suicide at Roland Kerr Further Education College of a self-administered poison. Detective Inspector Lestrade, who is heading the recent suicide case, has not said if his suicide is connected to those of four other serial suicides in the area, the fourth being media journalist Jennifer Wilson of Cardiff, found in Lauriston Gardens, Brixton. Holmes has been known for his observation skills, helping Scotland Yard out with some of the more macabre and brutal cases. Some believe that the detective’s scarily accurate “observations” are, in fact, fake, and that he simply researched the people he met. Government official, brother Mycroft Holmes, was unable to comment…_

“Shame,” John murmured to himself, “No wonder he killed himself, all the media attention calling him a fake. Poor bloke.” He wondered why he felt so sad; this death wasn’t nearly as powerful as all the men and women he served with in Afghanistan, yet he felt a deep sense of mourning for the man he had never met. Piercing green eyes stared back from the photograph at the top, cold, aloof expression sending shivers down John’s back. For a brief, fleeting moment in time, a mere _second,_ he felt like he knew the man gazing taciturnly up from the paper. It was gone in the same amount of time as it came, but it was enough to compel John to snap open his laptop again and type a quick blog post.

 

**_Serial Suicides:_ **

**_There's been another of those 'serial suicides'. It's weird. There doesn't seem to be any connection between the deceased. It doesn't make sense._ **

**_The new one was some bloke named Sherlock Holmes. Odd name, some sort of consulting detective, whatever that means. Shame, it looked like he’s solved a lot of cases for NSY. Got a lot of heat for it too; everyone’s been calling him a fake since he died. Poor bloke. RIP, Sherlock Holmes._ **

 


	2. Chapter 2

He hated them. Hated the sad looks and pitying stares that followed him whenever he went out. Hated the kind offers for help, as if he was perfectly incapable of handling simple things like carrying groceries or walking across the street (dammit, he had a cane, not a bloody wheelchair!). Hated the way people’s eyes lingered on him for just a second more than normal, because he was different; because he was broken. It made his skin crawl with an inane sense of anger and shame creep up the back of his neck and his left hand tremble just a bit when he focused on the stares, actually thought about _why_ he had to live with them.

These were the reasonings behind John’s irrational hatred of going grocery shopping. Unless the situation in his minute kitchen became so dire that he began thinking wistfully of Harry’s cooking, John only left the flat to go to his therapist meetings and take a short walk around London, a simple exercise routine he’d been told to follow upon his release from the hospital. Especially considering how every damn time, someone offered to help him in some way—like the cashier at Tesco’s offering to hold his pathetically half-filled bag of dried pasta and canned goods while he called for a cab. John, trying desperately hard not to smack him, had given a thin-lipped, entirely false smile—more of a grimace than anything, really—before taking his change from the younger man with a sharp shake of his head. “Perfectly capable of handling it myself, thanks,” he’d said tightly, gathering his shopping in his left hand and sharply turning on his heel, managing to walk out the doors without so much as a stumble, all the while praying desperately to whatever deity was out there that his leg wouldn’t act up and embarrass him by planting him face first into the ground. It was a soldier’s (slightly damaged) pride that had John forgoing the usual wave to a cab once outside, deciding that he could very well walk back to his flat on a nice cloudy day like today. Cab fare was expensive, after all, and what harm could it do to keep from spending a little extra money in his dwindling army pension? Honestly, how much trouble could a simple walk back to his bedsit be?

The correct answer: a lot.

John’s “brilliant” idea had turned out to be a very, very bad one, when about two blocks away from Tesco’s his leg began bothering him. It shouldn’t have been that much of a problem, had he not been caught in sudden downpour of freezing rain six streets away from his flat in a wonderful example of typical London weather. Left arm cradling his measly bag of shopping, right leaning heavily on his cane, John managed to duck under the cover of a red awning proclaiming the title “Speedy’s Sandwich Bar and Café”. Unfortunately, the shop looked like it was closed for the day—just his luck. The ex-army doctor grimaced as icy water trickled down his collar from the dripping ends of his flattened hair, soaking the collar of his shirt. Gently depositing the damp paper bag next to him, John placed one hand on a wall and rubbed at his leg with the other, cursing inwardly at his rotten luck. The streets had cleared out by now, only the occasional black cab or pedestrian seeking cover from the deluge passing by. His navigational sense were a bit blunt, to say the least, and he had no intention of wandering about in the heavy rain until he happened upon a bus stop. Grumbling to himself, John was just about to go up to and knock on the black door marked as “221B” and see if anyone there could help with his dilemma when something strange caught his attention. 

A wheezing sound had filled the air, sort of like—metal, scraping against concrete. But completely indescribable still. John straightened from his position bent over his leg, looking around in bewilderment. His eyes landed on a large blue telephone box placed right next to the end of the awning. 

He was almost certain hadn’t been there before. 

Somewhat disconcerted, John cautiously inched over to the police box. It appeared to be just that—an old blue police box. He hadn’t seen one like this in ages. There used to be a few discontinued models where he grew up, but no one used those anymore. He cracked a small smile at the old-timey appearance.

“Just don’t make ‘em like this anymore,” he sighed.

John jumped when the doors suddenly snapped open, revealing a man with short hair and big ears.

“You!” The man cried, smiling hugely.

 John, startled, looked around at the empty street, and eventually decided the man was talking to him. “M-me?” he stuttered.

“Yes, of course, you—John Hamish Watson, former army doctor and captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” The man looked rather pleased with himself, as if he’d memorized the line and remembered it for a test. 

John, on the other hand, was beginning to get a little frightened. “How the hell did you know that?”

“You two were supposed to meet—you were supposed to save that idiot, but nooo. Someone’s been splashing about in the time stream, messing up the currents. Someone doesn’t want you to meet. Someone who’s willing to bend time and space to make sure it happens, now what’s that about?” 

He knew he should have run, turned around, called the police for god’s sake. Anything but stand there and listen to the nutter spouting nonsense. But John was somewhat fascinated (and at the same time unnerved) by the box that appeared out of nowhere and the man who knew exactly who he was even though they’d never met. 

“Come on then, we have to fix this!” Big-Ears said, turned on his heel into the box.

And when John was suddenly being yanked into the police box by the madman in the leather coat, he was too shocked to even shout. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short and I'm not very pleased, but I sweat it will get better. Comments much appreciated! :)

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of a superwholock post I found on Tumblr. I promise it'll pick up the pace soon, this was just kind of a prologue. Follow me on Tumblr at consulting-jedi.tumblr.com for updates on progress, or to leave suggestions for anything!  
> Edit: I thrive on comments, so please leave one if it's not too much trouble! Tell me what you liked, didn't like, what could be improved on, what was good--this helps with the writing process. Thanks!


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